I'm a writer who never writes about sex. It's so far from my own fictional world.

I wrote 'White Teeth' in the late nineties. I didn't really feel trepidatious about it. It was a different time.

Desire is never final, desire is imprecise and impractical [...]

When the male organ of a man stands erect, two thirds of his intelect go away. And one third of his religion.

I have an ambition to write a great book, but that's really a competition with myself. I've noticed that a lot of young writers, people in all media, want to be famous but they don't really want to do anything. I can't think of anything less worth striving for than fame.

The lack of alternatives to an illegal action does not legitimise that action.

I remember so clearly, in the early days, if I had to do a piece of press, they'd phone for me and say, 'Oh, we're going to bring hair and makeup, it'll take about five hours.' And I said, 'Well, if it was Ian McEwan, would it take about five hours? Would there be hair and makeup? Cause if that's not the case, then don't bring the hair and makeup.' So, it's fascinating that they just assume: it's a young woman, she must want to be photographed for five hours. She must have nothing better to do than delight in trying on all your shoes. But it's not the case.